“Never invite a whore to a funeral,” he thought. Mike reached for his lighter pausing, watching the whore with a “tramp stamp” on her lower back. The ink signified ownership that she belonged to someone. Scanning the room, others appeared startled by her presence, but not really, she was expected.

The funeral, like most, was stagnant. The air was laden with smoke, the stench of whiskey and greasy food also hung in the air. Beer steins overflowed among the strangers and friends. The old wood tables had cheap decorations and religious pamphlets proclaiming salvation was near. Mike disagreed.

A makeshift altar with plastic crosses housed pictures of Dan in his younger years. A few pictures signified he never really lived. His life was on display with old, faded snapshots of a long, and lost loves. No children donned the tables, Dan could never commit to anyone, or anything. He had a few faithful dogs though.

The table was scattered with useless affirmations that never represents the darker side of life, which was most of his life. The church pamphlets suggested God was ever present, just maybe not at the Joe’s Bar. Dan always spoke fondly of his brief excursion with God. He would tell people he met God on Second Avenue in Seattle, waiting for a bus. I think Dan would have made a run for God if he could rise above the family speculations that he was joining a cult. After all, they preached something called hope.

There were pictures of all those who passed, most needlessly. Dan’s brother John died from Vietnam, right here in Bonner’s Ferry, carrying the demons from a faraway land. One could not kill little babies without the rhetoric and blowback from the mainstream America at the time. Mike muttered, “Truly, all the vets suffered.”

His sister Luetta drank herself to her grave. I remember how beautiful she was in high school. Young men often caught themselves staring at her astonishing looks, until she was “knocked up.” The once, beauty queen faced the reality of one-night stands with dirty diapers and hard liquor stains on the nightstand.

An old minister started to read Corinthians 2 without missing a beat while the music faded in and out from the cheap sound system. Sasha stood against the bar, drinking a Seven & Seven, swaying to classic Creedence Clearwater in the background, with a one-month-old baby in her arms. She appeared ridden hard, almost broken. “You can’t fight the demons you opened the door for,” Mike thought.

Sasha handed off the baby when the sound of Lynyrd Skynyrd came across the jukebox singing, “Mama told me when I was young…Come sit beside me, my only son...And listen closely to what I say...And if you do this it'll help you some sunny day."

She danced seductively, as Dan’s family attempted to pay their last respects. Sasha swayed slowly to the words, mesmerizing the drunkards. Aunt Thelma, the last known “true” relative, stared at Sasha with distain, “If looks could kill,” Mike thought, enjoying the show. Sasha danced rhythmically, slowly winning over the crowd.

The tension in the room increased, as the baby lay forgotten. The older wives, the worn ones who held two or more jobs to pay for the all the alcohol going down, did not appreciate Sasha. Her tramp stamp became clearer as her clothing loosened with the amount of alcohol she downed between songs. The stamp simply read, “El Diablo.”

Walking past Dan’s urn, adorned with the funeral home’s logo and a plastic Jesus seemed disgraceful. He was a survivor, a commando of his family’s war. He kept everyone together, attempting to be like other families, loving. On the outside, Dan carried a façade of normalcy, somewhat.

In the end, his funeral procession was the cream line, the ones who made it. These were the representatives of his life. A few muttered the prayer, “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.”

To no ones surprise, Dan’s eulogy came dancing as a whore.

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Lorena Swift is a local fiction writer from Walla Walla, WA. Her works can be found published in the Washington State University literary magazine, The Element. In addition, Lorena is the 2008 winner of Lit Fest, for her short story "Toe Tag." Lorena has published The Iron Box, as well as some of her photography pieces. Her writings often reflect life's realities, the lesser of two evils, that often never seem to get any glory.